THE swallow is not come yet; The river-banks are brown; The woodside walks are dumb yet, And dreary is the town. I miss a face from the window, A footstep from the grass; I miss the boyhood of my heart, And the summer-time that was. How shall I read the books I read, Or meet the men I met? I thought to find her rose-tree dead, But it is growing yet. And the river winds among the flags, And the leaf lies on the grass. But I walk alone. My hopes are gone, And the summer-time that was. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DIRGE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PEACE AND SHEPHERD by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD INTERNAL FIRESIDES by MATHILDE BLIND LOVE POEMS: 6 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) BEAUTY CRUCIFIED by ANNA SHAW BUCK UNIVERSAL GOOD, THE OBJECT OF THE DIVINE WILL; AND EVIL by JOHN BYROM SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 15 by BLISS CARMAN APRIL REMEMBERS by VIRGINIA WOODSON FRAME CHURCH SONG ON HIS MAJESTIE'S RETURNE OUT OF SCOTLAND by ABRAHAM COWLEY |